Graven Images
by Nynaeve1723
Summary: A who killed Emily? story sparked by some discussion a while back on the Coffeerooms board. WJ eventually, but darker and different in tone than my previous fics. R&R please!
1. So Long Ago

FEEDBACK: Yes, please. I respond to everything except flames. Constructive criticism is valued.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters. No profit is being made. It's all for fun.

A/N: This is a little darker with a different tone than my previous fics. I hope those of you who have read and reviewed in the past (thank you!) will enjoy it. I'm rating it M right now just to be safe since I'm not entirely certain what dark places we'll reach along the way, though I do know where the end of the journey leads.

**Graven Images (1?)**

The nightmares have changed, and I don't know why. They scare me. That's why they're nightmares, I tell myself. It's their job. Not that the old versions weren't frightening enough, but in some way I got used to them. I always wondered if some day, from some corner of my subconscious, the answer would creep into the frame. I think that might be exactly what's happening. And my answer is creeping damn slowly. Be careful what you wish for, Jordan. Maybe slowly is the best thing.

I'm actually thinking of calling Stiles. Of course, I might end up autopsying his cold corpse after he keels over from heart failure due to shock. I have a pretty good idea what he'd say anyway. _The nightmares have changed because you're finally ready to know the answer._

Right.

The answers won't bring her back. They won't change who I am, won't restore to me the people I've loved and pushed away. They won't erase the years of knowing how to run as far and as fast as I could.

And then there's the image of Stiles. He's telling me they just might do all those things I think they can't. I can even hear him saying it.

I groan at the morning sunlight bronzing the floor and turn my alarm off before it can jar my last nerve. Sometimes – three guesses as to what times – I really miss Pollack. I miss coffee and pastry in bed. I miss the security of knowing he'd be there in the morning. I even miss his terrible renditions of Australian folk songs. I sit up and hug my knees to my chest. The day promises to be sunny and warm for May. Summer is coming much faster than the petty pace my nightmares have set. Winter's coming in Sydney. Maybe I should visit…. He did say I was welcome any time.

Stiles pops up again and tells me I'd be running away one more time, and I should know by now I can't get away from them. I'm going to have to face them. He also asks me how I really feel about the reporter fellow he'd heard about. And in my head I have to admit that Pollack was a great distraction and he made me feel safe in ways I hadn't in a long time, but I won't ever love him, not the way I should if that mental plane ticket to Australia is one-way. I owe him more than that. I owe myself more than that.

I uncoil, my body already tense and aching. A night of tossing and turning isn't conducive to a cheery morning. A week or two weeks' worth of those nights isn't conducive to seeing straight. I trudge to the shower, hoping once again hot water and caffeine will work their magic and I can function at work. I haven't tried to stab Lily with a pencil lately, but she still has that look around the corners of her mouth, the one that says she knows something isn't exactly right and, if things don't improve soon, she'll turn me in to the state's shrink and all my mental conversations with Stiles will be held live and in person. I shudder.

Lily's hovering when I get to my office. She's smiling, but the smile is tight, her eyes dark. She speaks too quickly. "Jordan! Hi! How is everything?"

I allow myself to give her a look that asks what she's been smoking and if I can have some.

She blushes. "It's just – You know – I thought today might be kind of a tough day for you."

God, she knows more than I thought. "Tough? Why?" I arch my eyebrows and am relieved to hear my voice hold just the right note of confusion.

Her eyes bore into me. "You _know_," she says.

"No, Lily, I don't. Tell me. Please." I already need at least four of the ibuprofens in my desk and if she doesn't stop acting like we're sharing some big secret, I'm not going to be responsible for my actions.

"This time… A year ago." Her voice is soft, sad.

It hits me like I'm a toddler at the beach when an unexpectedly big wave comes in, sending me thudding to the sand, washing over me, making me cry and scream in panic as the now retreating water tries to steal me with it. My dad used to warn me and warn me about those waves, but I was too stubborn to listen to him. When I'd get swamped, he'd be there, coming to my rescue, picking me up, wrapping me in a big, soft towel and holding me close in his strong arms. He'd ask if I'd learned my lesson and I'd tell him yes. Only to do it all over again the next time we went to the beach. I guess it's a lesson I never really learned.

I can't do much more than nod at Lily. I choke out some response about needing to look at some reports and I put my hand on the doorknob, twisting it. It feels huge in my hand and as cold as… death. Cliché, but true. The door opens and pulls me with it. All I really want to do right then is go home, pack a bag and _run_. Sydney. Seattle. Timbuktu, for all I care. Somewhere that isn't Boston. A place where my mother wasn't murdered, where my father didn't spend most of my life hiding the truth from me, where, a year ago to the day, I didn't spend what seemed like my whole life in a hospital waiting room wondering if the man I love will live or die. A place where that same man never informed me that he didn't want my pity and my panicked declaration didn't change anything. I tell my mental Stiles that I can outrun the nightmares, just as surely as I can outrun Woodrow Wilson Hoyt. Or I can sure as hell try.

"Jordan?"

I know my shoulders jolt upward at the surprise. I turn and give Garret my best possible smile. He isn't fooled one bit. "Hey, Garret." I edge around to my chair, take my time sitting down and force down the trembling in my voice. "What can I do for you?"

He sits across from me. "You can tell me what's eating at you."

"Who? Me?" My voice is strident. I tone it down. "I'm fine. Really."

"No, you're not," he insists. "When was the last time you took a day off? A real one?"

I wave a hand at him, dismiss the question. "I think you'd be happy I've been such a model employee."

"Jordan, I appreciate all you've done. This place would have fallen apart if you hadn't – uh – organized everyone during my – my absence. And I know you think that you're doing a really good job covering up whatever is going on with you, but I know something's up. Lily knows. Hell, Jordan, I think the guy with the espresso cart on the corner knows."

I fight not to slump.

"You need a break. And if it's more than that, you need to talk to someone. I didn't, remember? I had some great talks with Johnny Walker, but they didn't solve much."

I want to tell him that I'm _fine_. Really. Just fine. A little tired from pulling the extra shifts and things, but other than that…. He pulls out a report. I recognize the case as one I did a couple days ago.

His voice is calm; he doesn't accuse. "You recall Mr. Nowicki?"

I nod.

"What was his cause of death?"

I force the tired wheels of my brain to chug along and slowly retrieve the information. "Hit and run. They got the driver though."

Garret's eyebrows flick up. "You sure?"

I nod again.

"So you can't think of any reason the D.A.'s office would think this report is a little strange?"

I swallow. "No."

"Because you listed cause of death for _Mr_. Nowicki as end-stage uterine cancer."

I feel heat rising in my cheeks. There's nothing I can say.

"Go home, Jordan. Take a few days. Get some sleep."

"I can't," I murmur.

"Of course, you can. I'm telling you-" He breaks off, hearing the undercurrent in my refusal. There is a new look of concern on his face. "Why not?"

"I'm having nightmares. About the day – the day my mother died. Different ones."

"How long?"

I shrug. "A week or two."

"Damn it, Jordan! Why haven't you said something? Called Stiles? Talked to someone?"

I can only shrug again. I chew on my lip for a moment. "I feel like – like maybe there's something… anything… an answer."

"_The_ answer." He doesn't make it a question. He doesn't even wait for my nod of confirmation. "And you're not sure you're ready."

"I always thought I was." I snort. "God knows, I've spent most of my adult life searching for the answer."

He leans forward. "I could play Stiles with you, Jordan, but I'm not going to. Call him. Go see him. Something. Maybe the answer's there and maybe it's not."

"It won't help," I answer with a sigh.

"Can it hurt?"

I hold still for a long time – or what feels like a long time. Then I shake my head.

Stiles is maddening with his demanding questions. Even more demanding than he was in my head, which is almost as unbelievable as it is frustrating. I'm here for answers, not more of his _Why­-_laced queries. I pace until the look on his face – _you can't pace the dreams away either_ – makes me sit down, determined to be calm, cool and collected. He smiles at me and suddenly changes the topic. Only, of course, I know with Stiles the shift is neither sudden nor genuine. He planned it and we're still talking about why – why the nightmares have changed, why now, why I'm suddenly not certain I can face the answers.

"So how's that reporter fellow I heard about? Not serious competition for yours truly, I hope."

I glare at him. "Pollack?"

"Have you been seeing more than one reporter?"

I ignore that. "He's – He's fine. I guess."

"Still in the picture?"

"He moved back to Sydney," I respond with a sigh.

"How did that make you feel?"

The cool, calm, collected Jordan snaps. "Oh, for Christ's sake, Stiles, I'm not here to talk about my love life!"

He grins. "But you have one. I call that progress, Jordan."

I snort. "Had."

"How long did it last?"

I dip my head, wanting to tell him this is ridiculous, that it isn't helping, but I know him too well. "A – A while."

"A month? Two?"

"Almost six months."

He raises his eyebrows. "I'm impressed."

"He – Uh – He moved in with me for the last couple of months."

His eyebrows rise further. "That really is terrific."

"Sure. Terrific."

"So you must have trusted him."

Now I snort and get to feel superior. "Trusted Pollack? He's a reporter! He was always on the lookout for some big story and hoping the next body I autopsied would be it. What?" Stiles is grinning at me and shaking his head.

"I didn't mean that, Jordan. I'd heard enough about him to guess he found your line of work a tempting source of information."

"Then what _did_ you mean?"

"Who suggested moving in together?"

"Would you quit answering my questions with…." I bite my lip.

Stiles' voice is softer now, serious. "That really is a lot of progress, Jordan."

"Oh, come on. He'd been shot. By a psycho who was going to kill him unless I killed her."

"You could have brought the chicken soup to his place, I'm sure."

I let out a pent up breath. "He got shot because he didn't trust me."

"And you wanted him to?"

Biting my lip again, I nod grimly.

"So, you trusted him." He holds up a hand to forestall my contradiction. "Personally. You trusted him on a personal level."

I nod.

"And you wanted him to trust you?"

Another nod.

"How did it end?"

I shrug. "He got a job offer he couldn't pass up."

"But he thought about turning it down?"

Damn Stiles! "Yeah. He thought about it. He – He wanted me to – to come with him."

Stiles is nodding now like one of the Three Wise Men. I'm hoping his gift is gold, because Frankincense and Myrrh never sounded that appealing to me. "Why didn't you go?"

"My life is here." There's nothing to add.

"Is it fair to say things ended well?"

Slowly, I nod. And I see it. I may have locked horns with Pollack over work issues a time or two, but emotionally I could trust him. He never hid his problems from me, never played games – if anything he always knew when I had fallen into my old habits and he always called me on it without accusing me of anything more than exactly what I'd done. It ended not because he betrayed me, not because we'd struggled for control of the relationship. It had ended because our lives had gone on separate paths. Natural causes. No autopsy required.

Stiles gives me one of his damn smiles. They're so – so _knowing_ without being smug, sympathetic without being cloying, concerned without being overbearing. All of which makes it impossible to loathe the smiles. I know because I've tried. "So maybe there's hope for you yet, Jordan."

I clasp my hands between my knees and rock forward. "Maybe." My voice falls like lead to the floor. "It's not like I – you know – I made some long term commitment – kids, all of that."

"Who cares?" He is so blithe about it. "It sounds as if it was a normal relationship with normal ups and downs. Something you've never really trusted yourself to have – and survive, right?"

God, I hate this man. Who the hell gave him the right to pick the locks in my brain and wrench out all of my rusted, moldering fears? Why can't he be some incompetent shrink? I can only nod again. Jordan Cavanaugh at a loss for words. I can count on one hand the number of people who'd believe that ever happens.

"But you did it, Jordan. So maybe it's time. Maybe your subconscious mind is telling you that you're ready to handle the truth about your mother, too."

"Couldn't my subconscious mind just tell me I'm ready to take up something like bungee jumping or sky diving? Couldn't it tell me to quit my job and run off to join the circus?"

He chuckles at me. "It could. Would you listen?"

"Are you nuts?" I shudder. "I _know_ what one tiny slip of that elastic cord or one little stitch wrong in the parachute can do to a person."

"That still leaves the circus."

I shake my head. Somehow he has teased me away from my near-paralyzing anxiety and back into the realm of merely sweaty-palmed, heart palpitating anxiety. I stand up. "Thanks."

He eyes me with caution. "Do you want to go over it? The doorway and everything?"

"No," I tell him, an odd calm descending on me. "I think I need to be alone." The truth is I've always been alone when it comes to my mother's death and he's right – I can survive the truth. I've survived the lies.

There's a message from Garret on my machine, telling me to take a couple of days, not to argue and to call if I need anything. There's another from the dry cleaner's – was Mr. Pollack ever going to get his blue dress shirt? With a pang, I miss him. The job offer had been sudden, our ending rushed, but it had decidedly been an ending. The last message is from Eddie Winslow hoping I know how to get in touch with Max. Eddie wants to invite him – and me, of course, he says as an after thought – to his wedding.

Life goes on.

I think I'm ready to go on with it. My gaze falls on a picture I'd found recently while cleaning out some boxes. Someone's birthday at the morgue. Silly party hats, noisemakers, streamers. One well-wisher had managed to snap a few pictures to immortalize the event. Woody was there, in full party regalia. You can see his hand resting on my shoulder. His face is relaxed, his eyes sparkling with a delight that can't come from the striped paper cone he's got perched on his head. I'm leaning back against him, smiling, my cup of bad fruit punch raised in a toast of some sort.

Life _has_ gone on. I'm not going to autopsy what went wrong with Woody. I'm going to have my regrets and my memories and I'm going to move on as he has. Maybe that ticket to Australia will be one-way. Probably not.

I'm too wired to concentrate on anything much, too wired to sleep. Besides, I know that if I go in search of the answers, they'll stay behind the locked door of my memory. I have to let them push their way out in their own time.

I can at least sleep now, though the answers don't come. May gives way to June and June is sneaking up on July. I skip Eddie's wedding, offering to work that weekend so Garret can spend some time with Abby. I smile a smile that I hope is fooling most of the people most of the time whenever I see Woody with Lu Simmons. I keep pricing flights to Sydney. I even take the online immigration test to find out if I have a skill the Australian government thinks is valuable. Turns out, I do, and they'd be happy to have me. I wonder how long _that_ feeling would last.

The weather is getting more and more humid each day. The nights aren't a lot better. It's not quite the Fourth yet. July and August are going to be a bitch. I'm lying in bed – the last night of June – tossing and turning, trying to ignore the angry, shouted argument I'm hearing in the street below, telling myself the popping noise I heard was a car backfiring, insisting the sticky warmth on my hands is sweat. I lift them up and look at them.

They're red with blood. It rims my nails, gathers in the creases of my fingers and paints my palms with a destiny I'll never escape. I look down. My blouse is stained with it, too, and my skirt. The plaid is splashed and blotched with dark patches of red, in between the blue. My right hand holds something heavy. I know what it is. I'm never supposed to touch one – it's not a toy. It's a gun. Guns have bullets and… Daddy taught me all about it. But I'm holding one. And there's a funny smell in the air. Finally, I look down at the floor.

Mommy.

I watch her lying there. I wait for her to get up. Her eyes are open, but maybe she slipped and fell and hit her head. There's blood everywhere that might make her fall. She'd been – not running really – but moving fast. There'd been yelling. Lots. And then the loud pop and the funny smell that stings my nose.

And now Daddy is here. I think he will run to Mommy, wake her up. I wonder if he'll yell at me for playing with his gun even if I don't know how I got it. I want to cover my ears, but I can't move.

Daddy's voice is soft instead. "Oh my God, Jordan. What have you done?"

With a shriek I bolt up in bed. I'd drifted into my dream without knowing it. And my answer at last came out of its corner.

_Oh my God, Jordan. What have you done?_

"What have I done?" I whisper in the dark, still air.

END Part One


	2. On My Own

FEEDBACK: Yes, please. I respond to everything except flames. Constructive criticism is valued.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters. No profit is being made. It's all for fun.

**A/N: Thanks for the lovely reviews thus far.**

_Be careful what you wish for_. I should have it tattooed across my forehead.

I have my answer. After all these years, I know why my father lied to me, why he left town rather than deal with my insistent questions, why there are holes in my memory he never wanted to be filled. I know what my own mind was protecting me from and I shiver in the knowledge I can never climb back into my blanket of oblivion.

For a long time I sit in my bed, knees drawn up to my chest, hugging them to me, as if I fold in on myself enough somehow I'll be able to minimize what I've done. Finally I pick up the phone. When the tired voice answers, I say, "It's Jordan."

"Jordan? Do you know what time it is?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry. I – Uh – I did something. And – And I need – I need… to confess."

I'm pretty sure he hears the genuine pain in my voice; he used to know me so well. "What did you do, Jordan, that you need to confess to in the middle of the night?"

"I killed my mother, Paul."

Half an hour later, he's at my door. Wordlessly he wraps his arms around me and leads me to the couch. The tears that started the moment I said the words haven't stopped. They are quiet tears. I think the harsh, angry sobs died years ago; all I have left for her, for my father, for _myself_ are these twin streams of silent guilt and anguish. Paul simply holds me and rocks back and forth, his hand smoothing my hair. After what seems like hours, he softly tells me, "Jordan, you didn't kill your mother."

I let my head rest on his shoulder. "But I did, Paul. I've finally remembered what happened that day."

He pulls back enough to tip up my chin so that I'm forced to meet his scrutiny. "Memory can be false. You know that." He swallows. "Someone must have suggested-"

I shake my head. "No. Never. And it all makes sense. My dad's lies, his cover up, why I blanked certain things out – everything."

"It doesn't make _any_ sense!" He shakes his head for emphasis. "Why would you…? No, Jordan. I don't accept this 'memory' of yours."

"Paul. I was standing over my mother, holding the gun that killed her. I was covered in blood – her blood. There'd been an argument of some sort and then – then this sound. The shot. And the smell. Believe me, I know that smell."

"What was the argument about?"

I shrug. "I don't know. Maybe Mom – Maybe she had one of her episodes and I got mad and picked up Dad's gun."

He doesn't reply, but his face is still a panorama of disbelief. "Jordan-"

"Paul, please. I know what happened." I lean back against the couch. "I need – absolution."

Defeated, he concedes, and we go through the old rites and rituals. They bring me a small comfort that I don't think I really expected. When he's gone, I brew coffee and drink it in bed waiting for the sunrise.

XXX

It's almost noon before I can make the call I've been thinking about since my third cup of Costa Rican dark roast. Not quite nine in the morning in the desert. Danny McCoy is prompt in answering my call.

"Jordan, good to hear from you." His voice is silk, but today it barely touches me. "Changed your mind at all?"

I give him a small chuckle and then sigh as dramatically as I can. "Sorry, not yet." I take a breath. "I actually need a favor."

"Sure. Whatever I can do."

"I need to find my father."

"And you think he's in Las Vegas?"

"No," I tell him. "But you're the only person I know who might have the right – or wrong – connections."

He laughs at that. "All right. What do I get if I find him?"

"My eternal gratitude?" I force myself to be flirtatious. I don't want him to know anything's wrong.

"Well, that should be thanks enough for anyone," he teases back. "Um, Jordan, would I be out of line if I assumed your dad may not exactly _want_ to be found?"

"Nope. You'd be right in line. But I need to get a message to him. I think he'll come back to Boston if he gets it."

"Okay, so what's this message I'm passing on."

I lick my lips. I've thought about this. "Tell him I want to know what happened to my extra uniform skirt."

"Huh? Your extra uniform skirt?" I can just picture the look of befuddlement on his face. At any other time I'd probably find it endearing.

"He'll understand, Danny."

"And he'll rush home to Bean Town?"

"That's what I'm hoping. I think."

He hesitates. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," I lie.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I'm good."

If he thinks I'm fibbing, he lets it pass. I have a funny feeling that my dad might not be the only one coming back to Boston if Danny can find him. Pollack was right about one thing – I'm not a great liar, which is, at this moment, a height of irony, in my mind.

"All right," he continues. "Can you e-mail me anything about him?"

"Sure. I'll send you everything I know." _Well, not everything. A girl's got to keep some secrets. Even from herself it seems._

"Great. I'll get on it as soon as I can."

"Thanks, Danny."

XXX

Danny calls me a week later. "Geez, Jordan, your old man must have been great at hide and seek."

"No luck?"

"Not so far."

I sigh. "Thanks for trying, Danny."

"Hey! I didn't say I was giving up. I've got some leads, some… people Ed might know. I just wanted you to know I was still looking."

"Okay. Thanks again."

"And I wanted to make sure you were still okay?" His tone says he didn't believe me the last time.

"I'm _fine_," I promise him. "There are just some – some things I need to talk to my dad about."

He hesitates. "Jordan, what if he won't go back to Boston?"

"Tell him I'll meet him somewhere – anywhere."

"It's that important?"

I see my blood stained hands again. "Yeah."

I hear a voice in the background and then Danny is chuckling. "Ed says _hi_ and to tell you we'll track down your old man." Another chuckle and then Danny's voice again, turned form the phone, "Do _you_ want to talk to her?" I smile to myself as Danny goes on, "_And_ Ed wants to make sure you know you're welcome here anytime. He likes you."

I laugh a little and thank Danny again before handing up.

I've just cradled the phone when Lily taps on my door. "Sorry," she tells me, her eyes straying in curiosity to the phone. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

I wave away her concern. "I was done."

She bites the edge of her lip. "Can I ask who it was?"

"Danny McCoy." A look of surprise widens her eyes. "I asked him to find Max for me."

"Is everything all right?"

_Damn it, is my relationship with my dad that bad that everyone thinks the minute I try to find him something must be wrong? Yeah. Never mind._ "Yeah, it's fine. I just need to talk with him about – about some things."

She nods with a slowness that tells me I'm not really fooling my nearest and dearest friends. Part of me wants to tell Lily… Garret… Nigel… Bug.

Woody.

Part of me. But I'm afraid I'll see that look in their eyes – the one in Paul's eyes when I told him. The one full of shock – not at _what_ I'm saying, but the fact I'm saying it at all – and sympathy because Jordan has finally let her mother's murder drive her over the edge. The _I don't want it to be true, so it can't be_ look. Then they'll say the soft, soothing words that I wouldn't mind hearing, except they're false. And I need the truth – I need it the way addicts need their fix.

She tells me Garret needs me to take a call, a body out near the Mass Pike. I shudder at the very mention of that phrase. Nigel's getting what we need and he'll meet me at the car. Lily mentions as I hurry past her that Woody's the detective.

Of course.

She also reminds me that if I ever need to talk, she's there for me. _Be careful what you wish for_.

XXX

The crime scene is the back parking lot of a small diner. Witnesses saw the deceased – one of the short order cooks - arguing with "some dude" the previous night. No one heard the subject of the argument or, if they did, no one was willing to talk about it. The description of the "dude" was vague – so vague it might be an insult to actually vague descriptions. Medium height, on the hefty side, muscled-hefty though, brownish-blond hair, etc. Not a list to inspire much hope of finding the guy so Woody could have a conversation with him.

I leave Nigel at the scene to go over the forensics. Woody shoots me a curious look, almost a pout. I can't help it. I can't be around him now. Because of so many things. Pollack. I know I disappointed Woody by choosing the Aussie, and it makes me both sad and angry that I care so much, that he cares so much, since he's the one who shut us down ultimately. Lu Simmons. She's nice, not so complicated and doesn't seem to get herself into situations where Woody ends up shooting people. It's clear we've both moved on, not completely – maybe that will come in time, but I suspect it won't – but enough to have lives apart from one another. Despite all that, I tremble inwardly at the thought of Woody getting a good look at my face. He'll know something's wrong and he'll ask me what it is. More, he'll insist I tell him. And because of everything that used to be between us, I'll tell him. He'll look at me and try to protect me from myself just like nothing changed and I can't take that anymore. I've realized over the last few days that somehow I'd expected Woody would be part of my life when I found out the truth about my mother. He'd help me put the pieces together and stay with me whatever the picture came out to be. He'd still help, but any claim I had on him is gone. If I do this, it has to be on my own.

I'm used to that.

XXX

We pull enough evidence off the body of Tommy Greene to justify the police issuing a warrant for the arrest of one Mikey Supansich, whose fingerprints and DNA are well known to law enforcement. Nigel is showing Woody a picture of Supansich, who has a scar down the left side of his face that looks like – all according to Nigel - whoever won that knife fight had a great time making dear Mikey remember it. The line curls like a coastline from his hair to his chin.

"Yikes," Woody says. "Funny no one mentioned that."

Nigel shrugs. "I think I'd'a kept mum about it, myself." Woody gives him a questioning look. "Bloke that that?" Nigel gestures at the computer screen. "What if he _won_ the fight? What if he lost and still doesn't like to talk about it?"

Woody nods speculatively. "Good point, Nige."

"Well, guys, I think Mr. Supansich's face may be even prettier – ewww…," I grimace as I finally get a look at the screen. "Um, more distinctive."

Nigel grins ghoulishly. "Now remember, luv, beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

I raise my brows. "Boris Karloff? The Wolfman? The Mummy?"

"Only if it's _his_ mummy," Nige quips. "You forgot Dr. Frankenstein."

"Frahnkenshteen," I correct him. If he's going to get silly, so am I. Gallows humor is all I have left at the moment.

Woody is watching us as if we have suddenly shifted dimensions on him and he's found himself in a world where everything is just slightly off, where the compasses don't point north and you might be expected to eat green eggs and ham.

Nigel and I exchange looks. We both clear our throats. "Right," he says. "Sorry. Back to work."

"Absolutely," I agree. I look at the face on screen again and it deflates the small bubble of normalcy I'd spent the last few minutes enjoying. "Our guy here, Tommy Greene, got in some pretty decent scratches." I lean forward and lightly trace a pencil tip against the face. "Here. Here. Here. And probably here, though that one would be light. The right side of his face should show four scratches, all fairly deep. Greene put up one hell of a fight."

"Any deep enough to need medical care?" My detective – _Jordan! Not yours – _asked.

I shrug. "Probably not, unless he doesn't take care of them and they get infected. If he was smart he stopped somewhere and got some basic supplies. If he was really smart, he stopped at several big places where the pharmacy is just part of the store and bought what he needed in batches. A lot of the big stores even have those self-checkout booths now."

Woody sighed.

"If he doesn't do something for them, they most likely will get infected. If it's bad enough he'll have to get medical care. Oh, and Woody? This guy dyes his hair. Greene had a couple of nice specimens clutched in his hand. I want to run a few more tests, but I might be able to get some kind of ethnicity."

There was a body the next day and another the following one. The fourth body didn't come until six days after Tommy Greene's. The scenes were all similar – alleyways or back lots. The second and fourth victims had jobs similar to Tommy's – working late, small out of the way places where a lot of blind eyes were turned to any fracases. The third was a paralegal who was also taking night classes in law school. All lived alone and, as Woody kept digging, we learned they had all gone to high school together and then served together in the Marines, though not for long. Beyond that, Woody ran into brick walls regarding the oddity of their military so-called careers. All had been killed with the same knife.

XXX

A week later there was still nothing new. An APB had gone out on Supansich. The families of the victims had been interviewed, but they had all denied knowing of anyone named Supansich or why anyone would have a grudge against their sons and brothers. Woody's break came a few days after that.

I had taken a report on yet another body to the precinct. Why, I'm not entirely sure. Woody wasn't there, so I left the report on his desk and turned around to leave. A young woman, twenty-three, maybe twenty-four, stood in the doorway, her heart-shaped face pale and drawn, her dark eyes huge and filled with anxiety. "Are you Detective Hoyt?" Her voice trembled.

"No, no, sorry. I'm – uh – He'll be back shortly." I give her my name.

"Oh. I'm Lesa. Lesa Warner." She twists her hands. "Okay. Maybe I'll just come back later."

Somehow, she looks like "later" might be closer to "never." I leap without looking. "What did you need to see him about?"

Anther startled "oh" escapes her lips. "I – My – My boyfriend – Well, ex-boyfriend… he was killed. They told me Detective Hoyt is in charge of the investigation."

"And you wanted some information?"

She shakes her head. "I think I might know something. About why, I mean. I mean David told me some things." She swallows. "It's why I broke up with him."

_David_? Supansich's fourth victim had been named David Caldwell. I ask her if that is whom she meant.

She nods slowly. "Are you also working on the case?"

I speak as gently as I can. "I'm the medical examiner who did the autopsy on David."

A look of distaste crosses her features. Hardly the first time I've seen it. "I – I see. Does that mean you help people like Detective Hoyt?"

I nod. _Whether they want me to or don't sometimes._

She gazes around for a moment and then her spine seems to stiffen. "Look, maybe I can tell you and you can tell him. I really just want to get this over with."

"Tell me what?" The girl turns, inhaling sharply. I raise my eyes to meet Woody's. He has a dangerously deceptive smile on his face. He advances easily toward Lesa. "I'm Detective Hoyt. What can I do for you…?"

Lesa glances over her shoulder at me, her eyes still startled, her lips twitching as if even this total stranger could feel the shifting undercurrents. "I – um – uh…." She swallows heavily. "I – Never mind. It's – I'm sure it's nothing."

Woody puts out a restraining arm as she tries to dash past him.

With an inward curse, I tell him who she is and her connection to the case.

Lesa calms slightly when confronted with Woody's frame blocking her way and his arms further barring her path. I have a sudden feeling I know a bit about David Caldwell's personality – and I don't like it. This girl is far too easily cowed. She gnaws on her lower lip while Woody's gaze tries to burn holes in my head.

I tell Lesa that she needs to tell Detective Hoyt whatever she'd been about to tell me and that, since the detective is back, I'd better be on my way. It earns me a surprised look from Woody. I don't have the energy to tussle with him on this though. I barely have the energy to care about this girl. That fact scares me.

XXX

I drive back to the morgue deep in thought, though I can't say about what. I do that a lot these days. My thoughts circle around in my head without any coherent meaning and later I can't recall what I spent so much time pondering. Maybe that's why I've always run before. Maybe it's a way of outdistancing the thoughts that I don't want to think. God, Australia is starting to sound like Heaven.

I head straight into Trace when I get back. Nigel had promised me some test results on a poisoning case and I'm hoping he has them. I want to finish the paperwork and give it to Garret. I find him talking with a familiar face.

"Hey." Danny McCoy smiles at me with what seems like genuine pleasure.

"Hi," I reply, my voice suffused with amusement and wry questioning. "You're in Boston."

He spreads out his hands. "So it would seem."

"And why are you in Boston?"

He shrugs. "I hadn't seen my favorite medical examiner lately."

"I'm going to go get some – uh – coffee," Nigel interjects as he sidles from the room.

I watch him go and then turn back to Danny. "Your favorite medical examiner, huh? And how many other M.E.'s do you know?"

"Well, now that you mention it, just you."

I eye him suspiciously. "Why are really here?"

He crosses the room to stand close to me, a little closer than is really comfortable. His voice drops. "I was worried about you."

"I'm fine. I told you." I turn around, ready to retreat to my office. "You didn't need to come out here."

He grabs my arm and spins me back around. "You're not fine and I did need to come out here." His face is serious, his eyes dark with concern. "You're a good friend, Jordan, and I think you're in trouble."

"I'm not!" I hear the edge in my voice and know I've blown it.

"Yeah? Come on, then. Come down to your office and prove to me nothing's wrong."

I raise an eyebrow and try to brazen this out. "Why, Danny McCoy, what are you suggesting?"

"Not that." His tone is clipped. He tugs me by the arm until I am walking beside him, keeping up – barely – with his long, ground-eating strides. He opens the door to my office.

Every drop of blood drains from my face.

END Part Two


	3. Slide

FEEDBACK: Yes, please. I respond to everything except flames. Constructive criticism is valued.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters. No profit is being made. It's all for fun.

"Hello, Jordan," my father greets me in those familiar, broad Boston vowels, as if he'd only been gone to the grocery store and not from my life without a trace for over a year.

"Dad," I manage, my breath hitching in my throat at the end. I look at Danny. "You found him."

Danny nods. "And since it seemed important to you, I thought I'd make sure he got where he was going."

"Seems Mr. McCoy here didn't quite trust me either." Max's voice is light enough, but the slight reproach of the words is evident to Jordan and Danny.

I open my mouth to reply and find the acid comment that had been in my throat has dissolved. All I can do is shake my head.

"You still want to tell me you're okay, Jordan?" Danny keeps one hand under my elbow.

Max looks at the younger man. "She'll be fine."

McCoy looks at me. I return his questioning gaze with a small nod. "I – I need to talk to my dad. Alone." I put a hand on his arm, partly from gratitude, partly from the comfort it affords me and partly from the terror at facing the inescapable truth that Danny knows nothing about, but against which his very presence serves as protection.

His face is grim, his jaw set. "All right. Ed needs me back in Vegas anyway." He opens my office door. "But, Jordan, call if you need anything."

I nod and thank him in a strained voice.

After he shuts the door, I make my way to my desk and sit down behind it. I'm at sea, swimming in water so deep it may not have a bottom, so cold I'm numb and may never be warm again.

"Seems like a nice young man."

I nod. "He's a – a friend."

"Who wouldn't mind being more?" My father's observation is made with a sigh of familiarity.

I shake my head.

Max arches an eyebrow. _Oh, really?_

I blush faintly. "Well, wouldn't mind. But he knows it's not going to happen."

"Why not?"

I snort. "He lives in Vegas, Dad. I live in Boston. We like – Why are we talking about my love life?"

"So, you have one?"

I glare at Max. After a tense moment, he drops his gaze. "What happened, Dad?"

"When?"

I speak through clenched teeth. "You know when."

Max stands up. "I've told you, Jordan. No more questions about that. I don't want to discuss it again."

I stand, too. My voice lashes him with pain and anger. "I _know_, Dad. I _know_ what happened. What I did."

"Then why'd you ask me?"

I gape at him in disbelief as the question, so seemingly casual, hits me like a punch to the solar plexus.

"You have all the answers, don't you, Jordan? Everything you wanted to know all these years?"

I can't speak; I can barely breathe.

"I never wanted you to know. And now you know why."

I find my voice. "And so what? You don't care? I kept searching and trying to find the truth and somehow I've gotten what I deserved?"

Max closes his eyes and shakes his head. "Don't be ridiculous, Jordan. Of course, I care."

"Then what, Dad? Now I know what happened and – and what? It's supposed to – to – to – I don't even know." I feel the tears start.

His expression is pained. "I don't know either," he tells me at last. "I didn't know what to do, Jordan. I did what seemed best at the time."

"Keeping it a secret from me?" I'm screeching at him, the thin thread of self control sliding through my grasp like a kite string on a windy day.

"Are you better off knowing now?"

I slump back into my chair. I croak out a difficult, "No."

The look in his eyes is eloquent without words. I think, for a moment, of all the accusations I flung at him over the years, and I know he didn't deserve them. He _was_ trying to protect me. From myself. Always from myself. I put my head in my hands and let the sobs come. I hear the click of the lock on my door and then my father – my dad, the man I've loved more than anyone else in the world and the one I've mistrusted so deeply for most of my life – holds me, his hands stroking my hair and my back. When the tears begin to taper off, he hands me a handkerchief and tells me to dry my eyes and blow my nose. I feel like a child again. Almost.

Finally, I look at him. "Why did I do it?"

"I don't know, honey. I never knew."

I shudder. "You must have hated me."

"What?" His eyes search mine. "No, Jordan. I could never hate you."

"I took her away from you." I snort derisively. "And then I spent my adult life badgering you about all of it. No wonder you left Boston."

He hugs me tightly. "Jordan, listen to me when I tell you this: I never hated you. And I left Boston because I was afraid I'd end up telling you. I had a pretty good idea what it would do to you."

"My whole life – I've cost you everything."

He hushes me. "No, honey. No, you haven't. Don't think that way."

"Dad-"

"Jordan, don't do this. Don't say these things. Don't even think them. I've done the things I did because I love you. I love you more than anyone in this world. You're my daughter." He pushes a strand of hair out of my face.

"But-"

"No! Whatever you're going to say, don't."

We sit quietly for a few minutes, his arm around me. After a while, I rest my head on his shoulder. "I love you, Daddy."

"Daddy?" He looks at me, his expression one of mock suspicion. "I haven't heard that in a long time."

I give him a watery smile. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Come on, kid. Let's get out of here." He looks around. "I never told you this, but this place gives me the creeps."

I clock out early and spend the rest of the day with my father. We go for a walk on the beach. He asks me if I remember how I used to get knocked down by the waves when I was little. I laugh, the first real laughter I've managed in a long time. I admit that I never listened to him. He sighs and tells me I always had to do things my own way. All the heavier implications of that phrase remain unsaid.

He asks about my cases and I feel my energy, my interest renewing itself. I keep stumbling on the thought _I killed my mother_ and it sends me spinning each time, but I realize I'm going to have to face it, to deal with it. I think maybe – just maybe – I will be able to do those things. I think that I may finally escape her.

I start to tell him about Mikey Supansich and the four murders we think he committed. Max listens attentively. He nods from time to time. I tell him about Lesa Warner, whose visit to Woody's office now seems like light years away. We stop walking. "How did she react when Woody blocked her way?"

I shrug. "She backed down. Immediately." I give him a conspiratorial grin. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I'd guess Caldwell was a controlling son of a bitch."

I nod in agreement.

"What did you say about his career in the military?"

I repeated what we knew about the four victims.

"They were in for about five months?"

"Yeah. Give or take. Why? What are you thinking, Dad?"

"And before that?" He may as well be a bloodhound on a trail.

"High school buddies. All enlisted together."

"Enemies?"

I shake my head. "The families all insisted they were popular, well-liked." I stop. "Of course, nothing says 'popular' and 'well-liked' are really the same thing."

"Big men on campus?"

"Yeah. I guess. Jocks. Two on the football team, all four played baseball, took the team to the state championships two years in a row."

Max nods. "There's an old expression, Jordan."

I wait for the enlightenment, letting him share his insights in his own way.

"_Cherchez la femme_. It's French."

"Yeah, I know. _Search for the woman_."

"Exactly."

I'm supposed to make sense of that. "I – uh – I don't get it."

"Think about it, Jordan. The high school big shots – hell, most of the big shots period – what do they get?"

I chuckle. "About anything they want." I pause. "Ah. I think I'm with you now. You're thinking… what exactly?" I guess I wasn't as with him as I'd hoped.

He shakes his head. "What kind of discharges did they all get?"

"Dishonorable."

"Ten to one, Jordan, those boys weren't used to not getting whatever they wanted, especially from the girls. You look in North Carolina and I bet you'll find a girl who didn't want to give one of them – maybe all of them – what they were hoping for."

I nod. "So they took it?"

"Yeah. Bastards."

"But then why weren't they prosecuted?"

"Might be she didn't press charges. Might be she – or a family member – went to the C.O. of the base though."

"A family member? Like a brother." I take a deep breath.

"This is all speculation, of course."

"Yeah, but it fits." I realize I've missed this feeling. The new lightness in my step isn't lost on my father.

"Been missing this?"

I shake my head at his ability to read me so well. "I haven't been in the best place lately. I think part of me expected to stop caring once I knew what happened to Mom."

"Nah. Your passion for helping people, Jordan, didn't come from that. It's always been in you."

I smile and murmur, "Crusader Rabbit."

"Huh?"

Now I laugh. "Something someone said to me a while ago."

"Someone?"

"A reporter named J.D. Pollack. He didn't really mean it as a compliment, but…." I shrug.

Dad changes the subject, though I suspect he knows he isn't really changing it much. "How's Woody?"

I let out a long, breath. "How long have you got?"

"For you? As long as it takes."

"Great." I link my arm through his. "But I need a drink if we're going to talk about all that."

"All that? Oh, dear. This isn't going to be good. Should we go somewhere for drinks or just get a bottle and go back to your place?"

I consider it for a moment. "Bottle would be cheaper."

He shakes his head.

XXX

Max stayed about a week, leaving me a forwarding address this time at least. It turns out he was right about the reason Mikey Supansich killed the four men. Lesa Warner's information – an overheard conversation between David and his buddies – led Woody to Supansich's sister in North Carolina. Or more specifically, it led him to the psych ward where she resides in a state of disassociation. About four months earlier, she'd suffered a psychotic break, unable ultimately to deal with the rapes that had occurred. Her brother had gone after her assailants, exacting a justice on them for which he never showed any remorse.

The night before Dad left, he told me what he'd found that morning so long ago. For once, I didn't have to ask. I suppose that slowly it would have all come back to me anyway, and he figured it was better to hear it from him. He'd clearly rehearsed his words, which was oddly comforting. I knew he wanted to get it as right as he could, so that I could begin to heal the tremendous guilt I was dragging around.

"There isn't much to tell, Jordan. You'd gotten ready for school and gone downstairs for breakfast. I assumed you were finishing up when I heard yelling. You and your mother had been having some knockdown drag-outs about little things." He smiled at me. "Ten years old and you already knew everything." He patted my hand at that. "I heard you scream 'Mommy' and a sound like a slap. Before I could move, I heard the gunshot. By the time I got downstairs, she was dead. You were holding the gun, sobbing, covered in her blood and, as it turned out, some of your own. She must have slapped you and cut your lip. Whatever happened, Jordan, I know it was an accident." He paused for a long time, his eyes distant. "I cleaned you up and told you not to worry about school and you looked at me."

"I didn't remember?"

Dad shook his head at that. "That was when I realized maybe I could protect you."

I nodded at that.

"I guess I didn't do so good a job, Jordan, but I tried."

I laid my head on his shoulder. "No, Dad, you did a good job. Really."

XXXXX

He's been gone a few weeks. I've spent that time thinking. I still haven't told anyone what happened. Danny McCoy called a few times and when I could finally talk to him I was able to assure him that everything had worked out. He iterated his invitation to Las Vegas any time. I said I'd let him know.

Today finds me at her grave. I trace the letters of her name, of the inscription, of the dates. "I think I hated you," I murmur. "I knew what you did – to Dad. I taught myself never to love anyone because of that." I swallow. "I used to think the way you cried sometimes, how unhappy you could be – I used to think that was all my fault. I convinced myself I made everyone miserable sooner or later. I think part of me was glad when you were gone and maybe that's why I spent years trying to figure out what happened to you – I felt guilty." I look down. "Of course, I had good reason to, I guess. I can't change any of it – you, me, Dad, James. But I'm putting it where it all needs to be, Mom. In the past."

I stand up and brush the earth from my pants.

My next stop is – strangely – more difficult. I tap on the door to Paul's tiny office at the rectory. He smiles at me and invites me in. He appraises me for a long moment. "Those look a lot like traveling clothes, Jordan."

I shrug and smile.

"Vacation?"

"I don't think so."

"Running again?"

I seesaw a hand. "Maybe. But it doesn't feel that way."

"Does this have to do with your memories?"

I nod. He gestures for me to sit down. "Max came home. He confirmed it, Paul.

I had some kind of fight with my mom and somehow picked up his gun." I lift one shoulder. "I didn't mean to."

"You really believe this?"

"Yeah. I do."

"Are you – How are you?"

"Better than you'd think," I tell him. "I got my dad back, for one thing. All those years, all the time I thought I couldn't trust him? He was trying to protect me. I don't know if he did the right thing or not, but I know he made that choice because he loved me. I'm going to be okay."

"So why are you leaving?"

"Because I've finally put my mother behind me. Dad once asked me if I ever wondered what my life would be like if I stopped spending half of it obsessing over her. Well, I'm wondering."

"You can't find out in Boston?"

I bite my lip. "Do you remember Woody Hoyt, Detective Hoyt?"

Paul nods.

"I – Uh – I could have had something – maybe _the_ something with him – but I blew it. Or we both did, I don't know. He's moved on with his life."

"And you haven't?"

I shake my head. "Not really. But I think I have a chance at doing that somewhere else."

"Somewhere specific?"

"Yeah." I tell him about Pollack.

"You'll be happy with him?"

I nod. "It's not going to be the same. But, Paul, I've let so much of my life go by without taking the chances I've should have and jumping at the ones I shouldn't have…. This is a chance to – to have the things I always tried to pretend I didn't want."

He inclines his head and studies me. "This isn't spur of the moment?"

"Maybe a little," I admit with a blush and a smile.

He tells me to keep in touch and says he'll pray for me. For the first time in years, I thank him for that. I also ask that he hear my confession. I think maybe I've been a little hard on God these last few decades.

As I close the door behind me and descend the few steps to the sidewalk, I see that the cab I'd ordered has arrived. I give the cabbie my suitcases, which I had left outside Paul's door. I tell him Logan, international departures, please.

I cry silent tears all the way to the airport. I'll miss Boston, my job, my friends. I'll miss Woody, more than I can ever admit. I'm finally the woman he could have made a future with, but that future melted away on a morning in May, more than a year ago. He'll be happy with Lu Simmons. Pollack loves me and, a few annoying character traits notwithstanding, he's a good man. He's always taken me as is, and that means something to me now.

Some things just aren't meant to be.

END Part Three

One more part and I promise the WJ shippers will not hate it.


	4. Home Is Where the Heart Is

FEEDBACK: Yes, please. I respond to everything except flames. Constructive criticism is valued.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters. No profit is being made. It's all for fun.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews!

A/N2: Some canon elements may be a bit off - I needed to play with a few items.

**Graven Images (4/4): Home is Where the Heart Is**

"Dr. Cavanaugh?"

My head dips forward slightly and I smother a sigh of irritation. It's hardly Melissa's fault I've pulled a double, need a cup of coffee as if it were my life's blood and was hoping to sign this report and head home. _Home. It's still weird to think of this place as home. Nice enough, I suppose. But weird._

_Also, nightmare-free. Recrimination-free. And, having checked the world weather reports half an hour ago, snow-free._

_But weird._

"Yes, Melissa," I say. "What is it?"

She smiles. "Someone here to see you."

I can't imagine whom it could be – cop? Solicitor? Next of kin? I actually spent most of my double shift working on files. One decidedly nice thing about Sydney is there is less crime than Boston. "Family member?"

"I don't think so." She flicks up her eyebrows at me. "He's someone _very_ good looking."

I nod at her, with a self-conscious smile. Melissa flirts with anything in pants and she's made a fuss over Pollack every time he's stopped in to see me. "Show him in." As I wait, I skim my report one last time, aware now that he's standing in the doorway, watching me add my signature. I make a minor production of it, grinning.

_Are you happy, Jordan?_ Paul had e-mailed that last week.

_You know, I think I am_ I had replied. Not ecstatic, but happy enough. There's been a peace in giving up the things I could never have in favor of the attainable. The charm Boston held for me is…

Standing in the doorway, scrutinizing me with frank, deep blue eyes and a worn smile. "God, that's a long flight, Jordan."

I laugh awkwardly. "Yeah, it is." I stand up, smoothing the skirt I'm wearing. My boss here is a tad more traditional than Garret. Woody's glance is approving. "What are you doing here?"

He leans against the door jamb. "I know why you left, Jo."

I swallow.

"And you were wrong."

XXX

Half an hour later finds us at an early lunch at Circular Quay, the hub of downtown Sydney. We're a stone's throw from the Opera House with its white, billowing "sails." Spanning the harbor in front of us is the Harbour Bridge, or the Coathanger as I've grown used to calling it. We can watch the ferries going in and out, taking passengers across the water to Manly and hear the trains sliding into the station, connecting other parts of the city and the suburbs. A steady stream of people flows by our outdoor table at one of the little restaurants that dot this area. We're drinking coffee and waiting for our pasta to arrive. Woody's carry-on bag, the only luggage he brought, hulks in a chair next to him. We'd agreed not to talk about why he's here on the train from the morgue to the station, so I'm still trying to sort out what he means, what threads have brought him halfway around the world.

He hunches forward, his hands lying loosely open on the table. He yawns.

"Do you want to do this later?" I ask, too eager, I know. "You've got to be exhausted."

He shakes his head. "I actually slept on the plane."

"Do you have somewhere to stay?" I bite my tongue. Even if he doesn't, I can hardly offer to have him stay with me – us. Talk about an international incident.

He nods this time. "Lily found me some place." He rattles off a name.

"Good!" I sip my coffee, trying to marshal my scrambled emotions. "That's pretty close to here, actually. Are there any places you want to see? The beaches are great. Of course, the Opera House is-"

"Jordan, stop."

"But, Woody, there really is a lot-"

"Stop. Okay? Stop. I didn't come down here to sightsee."

"Then why…?" My hands lay on the table in front of me. I twist them.

He reaches for my hands and squeezes them softly. "I told you. I know why you left Boston. And you were wrong."

I shake my head. "Woody, I know – I know you – No one wants to – to think – Well, to think about what happened, but it _is_ what happened."

"Why didn't you tell anyone?"

I sigh. "Because I knew what they – what you – would do and say. Exactly what you're doing now."

"Telling you that you didn't kill your mother? That's a bad thing?"

"I know everyone wants that to be the truth, that I didn't shoot her, but I know the truth. I know what I did. And I knew no one at ho- in Boston would be able to accept that."

"Gee, we don't want you to be responsible for killing someone. We're terrible people."

"No! It's not that, Woody." I struggle for the words. "I – I need to be somewhere that I can accept the truth though."

"Great. Come home."

"This _is_ home."

"Home is where the heart is, Jordan." He looks at me steadily. "And your heart will never truly be here."

I prickle. "Sydney's great! The weather is usually wonderful; the people are terrific; there are tons of things to do…."

"Fine," he tells me. "Come back for a visit or two."

"Woody-"

"Jo, you didn't kill your mom."

I feel tears sting my eyes. "I remember what happened. And my dad confirmed it."

"I don't care. You didn't do it."

I give him an exasperated sigh. "How'd you find out anyway?"

"Father Paul."

"He _told_ you?" I'm appalled.

"Of course not. You confessed to him, Jordan. He wouldn't violate the sanctity of that. Believe me, I tried to get him to. He dropped a hint or two."

I take a deep breath and hold it for a moment. My heart is hammering in my throat. "A hint?"

Woody shrugs. "He came in with some parishioners. Their daughter had been raped and we needed her to i.d. the assailant in a line-up. After it was over, he asked me about a homicide I was working. A vagrant from the shelter. He said something about knowing the other M.E.s were good, but still wishing it could be you handling the case at the morgue. I figured he didn't know you were gone." He pauses. "Imagine my surprise when he told me he thought moving to Sydney had been good for you."

"I didn't even tell Garret where I was going," I murmur.

"No, you didn't." He eyes me sternly. "Do you know Garret has given you an indefinite leave of absence?"

"But I told him that! I mean, I left him my resignation."

"Yeah, well, when it comes to you apparently he's an optimist."

I snort at that thought and then realize that Woody has a point. Garret knows me, but he's never seemed to give up hope I'll be more than I have been. I should have told him where I was going. Guilt washes through me.

Woody plows on. "So I asked Paul why. He said he couldn't tell me, which I didn't get and asked _why_ he couldn't tell me. He said you'd told him something in confession and it had to do with your moving. When I couldn't figure out what you might have _confessed_ he told me to think about it."

"I see."

"I'm not exactly stupid, Jordan. Between that and Nigel's mentioning you'd asked Danny McCoy – and Vegas Boy, Jordan? Vegas Boy? – to find Max… well, it didn't take long to figure it out."

"You couldn't be sure," I try diffidently.

"I played Twenty Questions with Father Paul on that one. I hope he doesn't play poker. He can't bluff to save his life."

I can't help but grin. "I know. He never could." I flex my hands in his. "Woody, I appreciate this, but I know what happened."

"No, you don't."

"Yeah, I-"

"What do you remember?"

"What?"

"What _exactly_ do you remember?"

I glare at him. "I remember shooting my mother."

"Really?"

"Really."

"You remember climbing up on a chair, aiming a gun and pulling the trigger."

"Yeah, I-" My tongue trips over itself as my words come to a sudden halt. "What?"

"Once I figured out what was going on, I asked Nigel to help. I pulled the files, Jordan. Nigel ran simulations that couldn't have been done back then and he ran some tests that should have been run and weren't."

"My dad wanted to protect me," I tell him.

"Yeah, well, maybe your dad should have tried to find out the truth."

"Woody-!"

"Sorry." He scowls. "I'm sure Max did what he thought was best." He hesitates. "But it wasn't, Jordan. Because you didn't do it."

"But I… remember. And he found me… with the gun."

Woody nods. "Right. And _what_ do you remember?" He's persistent, like someone picking at a scab or a mosquito bite.

"I – Um – I…." My jaw drops. "I'm standing over my mom. I'm holding the gun. I can smell the gun smoke. I'm covered in my mom's blood." I disengage one hand and absently run it over my lip. "And my dad told me a little of my own. She slapped me, split my lip… we argued – Dad said Mom and I had been arguing over things for a while – he said even at ten I thought I knew best."

"You may have argued with her, Jo, but she never slapped you. And _you_ didn't kill her."

The waitress arrives with our meals. Reluctantly, I think, Woody drops my hands and leans back. With a sardonic smile, he tilts up his wine glass in a toast. "Here's to the truth."

I look away. When I manage to bring my gaze back to him, he's studying me intently. I begin to eat my lunch, but find it has no taste. Defeated, I set the fork down. "All right, why are you so certain I didn't – that it wasn't me?"

"Other than the fact I _know_ you and I know you just couldn't have done it?"

"I'm not sure how well you really know me, Woody," I reply in a tiny voice.

He gives me a wary look. "Maybe you've got a point, Jordan, but I know that no matter what, you couldn't have pulled that trigger. Because of who you are – who I see, if you want – but also because it's forensically impossible."

"If there weren't a lot of tests done…?"

"The angle was wrong, Jordan." His expression is tender, concerned. "Unless you were really tall for your age, you'd have had to have climbed up on a chair to do it."

My hand trembles as I reach for my wine glass. I feel the cold liquid in my mouth, but its flavor is lost on me. "Are you sure?" I choke out my question in a whisper.

He nods. "Nigel ran it – I don't know how many times, Jo."

"But – But everything I remember. Everything my dad found…."

"You don't remember pulling the trigger, do you?"

I shake my head.

"Because you didn't."

I feel nauseous. I bolt up, apologizing, asking him to give me a little time, promising to call his hotel in a couple of hours. I grab my purse and flee for the pier, where one of the ferries is about to depart. I just make the boat and find a place outside, in the sun and fresh air. I'm shaking violently and tears are streaming down my face. When the ferry docks at Balmain, where we're living, I stumble off. The cottage is about three blocks away. I never will recall that walk. The only thing I will ever remember about those hours is walking through the front gate and thinking how loud the buzzing of the bees in the front garden sounded to me and how bright the flowers appeared and how, in that moment, I was suddenly glad of the passion so many Aussies bring to gardening.

XXX

I'm sitting in the back garden now – much less profuse in its floral variety. The sun is still high. A glass is in my hand. Scotch. I don't remember coming in or changing, which I must have done, judging by my torn denim shorts and white tank top. I don't recall picking up the bottle of alcohol or coming to sit out here, but I do know we just bought the Scotch and now the bottle is about a third empty.

I hear the scrape of Pollack's key in the lock. He calls out my name and, when I don't answer, makes his way to the kitchen. I must have left the back door open because he pokes his head out.

"There you are, Cavanaugh. I was about to call the… what's wrong?"

I shake my head. My tongue is too furry for communication.

He covers the ground between us in a few strides. His sharp eyes take in the bottle and my glass. Worry flashes across his face, but he tries to coax me out with a lighthearted tone. "Work that bad?"

I shake my head again.

He sinks down in the chair next to mine. "Come on, Cavanaugh. You're scaring me."

I gulp the tears I'd forgotten I was in the midst of crying. "Woody's here."

He glances around. "Hoyt? Here?"

I wave a hand in the general direction of the city. "In Sydney. Came to see me at work."

Pollack is working at it, trying to remain calm and casual. "Taking in the sights?"

"Nope." _Okay, yeah, I am more than a little buzzed. _"Came to tell me I'm wrong."

"About…?"

"I didn't kill my mom."

For a moment, he is silent, taking this in, digesting it. I think the implications are more instantly obvious to him than they were to me. They usually are for outsiders, which is what he is, no matter how much I tried to tell myself he wasn't. He nods at last. "So you came back here and drank half a bottle of Scotch?"

He didn't say _home_; that's not lost on me. "A third," I protest a bit wobbly. "But yeah."

"Can I ask – I mean, are you sure?"

"Nigel – Nigel did some tests. The angle of the shot was wrong. I'd have to been standing on something." I shrug, sobriety returning in leaps and bounds. "And of the things I remember, you know what I _don't_ remember at all?" He waits. "Pulling the trigger."

He stands up and I scoot over so he can sit with me. He puts an arm around me. I drop my head to his shoulder. "Really threw you, huh?"

I nod. "My dad – He thought I could have done it. Thought it – Believed it so strongly that he helped cover up any evidence. Woody said very few tests were run that should have been. I know he was protecting me, but – he – he thought – he thought what he thought. I think it was almost worse to find that out."

He is silent for a moment. When he does speak, his voice is low and sad. "And to find out you ran when you didn't have to." It's not a question.

Slowly, I raise my head to look into his face. "I'm sorry," I murmur.

He reaches up a hand and strokes my cheek. "It's all right, Cavanaugh. I'd rather you had the real truth than not."

"Even if it means…?"

"That you'll be wishing for your winter coat in short order as you struggle through the Boston snow?"

Sadly, I nod.

He kisses my forehead. "Yeah. It's what's best for you. And I can be selfish bastard at times, especially when it comes to getting stories, but I care about you – a lot. And that means I want you to be happy."

I sniff back tears. "Maybe we'll – I'll visit."

He smiles at me. "Just not for your honeymoon, please."

I snort. "That's jumping the gun a bit."

He shakes his head. "I doubt it."

XXXXX

Woody meets me at Circular Quay and takes my bags from me. I'd never brought a lot, and Pollack will ship back the things I couldn't pack. We walk silently back to his hotel. He guides me into an elevator and hits the button for the ninth floor. We stop in front of room 942. He works the key card and, after pushing open the door, takes my luggage in. He hands me the key car and tells me he's right next door. "I didn't think… didn't want to… I thought this was best."

I nod, looking around at the sterile room. I haven't even left, and the warmth I'd valued in Sydney is leeching from my memories.

"Hungry?"

I look up and nod. My liquid lunch, tea and early dinner were a lot of empty calories.

"Room service okay?"

"Great. I'm kind of tired."

He laughs. "Me, too."

He orders some food and then we face each other across the Gulf of What Next? "So." He shifts from one foot to the other. "Want to talk about it?"

I shake my head. "I want to figure it out."

"Figure what out?"

"Who killed her?"

"Jordan!"

"Woody, we know I was there – I had to be. Come on."

"Oh, not the Game again?" He sighs. My expression must be implacable, for he gives in. "All right. Set the scene." He's got to feel it, too – if we play this game, we can avoid the other one we've been playing since … since we met almost.

"I've just finished breakfast." I see it in my mind. "I'm putting my bowl in the sink and my mother's telling me something." I close my eyes. "I'm supposed to go to Lindsey Chambers' birthday party that Saturday. But I _hate_ Lindsey Chambers. I don't want to go. She's telling me I'm going. We're arguing. Just like my dad said." I open my eyes and look at him, hoping he'll push for me.

"Where are you? Still in the kitchen?" I nod. "Okay, how did you get out of the kitchen?"

"I don't – there was a knock. The front door." I gape at him in shock. "Someone came to the door. Mom told me to stay in the kitchen, told me to finish putting my lunch together. I was doing that – putting my sandwich in the bag, getting out milk money from where she kept it…."

"Then what?"

I shake my head. "Mom's yelling. She's yelling about – it doesn't make sense. Now someone is yelling back."

Woody leans forward. "Male or female?"

I glance up at him, my eyes darting around the room, seeing our 1970s Boston house and not this hotel. "Female." My lips go slack. "Mom's arguing with another woman. About a man. About – I don't know. I hear a sound and my mom's voice changes – she's afraid of something." My fingers go to my lips as they did at lunch. "I run in to be with my mom, to protect her."

"Okay," Woody says. "Where is everyone?"

"Mom's there," I point. "She's facing the other woman."

"Much as it impinges on my manhood, I'll make the sacrifice," Woody tells me, joking gently. "I'm the other woman. Where are you?"

I track my finger across the room. "I run in from the kitchen. My mom puts out a hand, tells me to stop, to go back, but I'm ten and I already know more than she does."

"Of course."

I smile tightly at him. "I see – Oh, God – the woman has a gun. She's pointing it at Mom. I'm going to tackle her and scream for Daddy. It's going to be fine. I'm going to make sure Mom's fine. I run toward the woman with the gun. She hits me." My eyes widen at him. "My lip! She hit me. And – She hit my tooth. I cut her hand! But – She knocked me down. And before I could get up – she – oh, no…." I can barely catch my breath. Woody ends the game and comes to me, holding me as I gasp for breath.

"It's okay, Jordan. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. It's okay."

I slump into his arms and he settles in an armchair, keeping me tight in his embrace. "I tried to save her. I tried, Woody. I really did." The tears are scalding and copious now. My body is wrenched with twenty-five years' worth of sobs.

"Shh, Jo. Of course, you did. You were a kid. You might have been killed, too." He tilts up my chin with one finger. "And then where would I be?"

"Kewaunee?" I ask gamely through the tears.

He laughs and strokes my hair. "I am serious, Jordan. You did everything you could and probably a few things you shouldn't have." His smile is fond. "No surprise there, huh?"

I shake my head and then it bowls me over again. "I didn't kill her."

"No. You wanted to save her."

"All these years – that's why – could that be why I've pushed so hard? I thought maybe I could have done something." I look up at him. "There wasn't anything, was there?"

He shakes his head. "No."

"Maybe that's part of why I couldn't remember."

"Maybe."

We are silent for a while. He simply holds me, letting me rest against him. Our reverie is broken by a tap on the door. Dinner has arrived. I manage to eat my way through this meal, though Woody tells me I'm not with him mentally. One little thing nags at me.

Who was the woman?

What had my dad told me? _Cherchez la femme?_

After dinner, I wander to the window and stare out. I can see the harbor lights; a few sailboats are out for a nighttime jaunt under a luminous moon. "Who was she?"

Woody returns from putting the room service dishes out in the hall. "What?"

"Who was she? The woman that morning?"

He sighs. "Jordan-"

"I need to know."

"Isn't it enough that you know it wasn't – it wasn't you." He hesitates. "And it wasn't your dad."

I shake my head. "It's not enough."

"What are you hoping for?" I can hear the frustration in his voice. "After all this time?"

"Nigel ran simulations, you said-"

"Jordan! He ran those to prove you didn't do it! You know anything any of us find out wouldn't stand up in court."

I whirl, tears thick in my throat. "I know that! But I _need_ to know. I need to know who took away my mother, my childhood, hell, most of my adult life!"

He crosses the room and puts his arms around me. "All right. Yeah, okay." His voice is soft. I think he understands. He is motherless, too, after all. But at least he has a name for what stole his mother. I need that. "What do you want to do?"

I pull away and push my hair from my face. "Maybe if I try harder…."

He waits for a moment. "Do you want to do this tomorrow? We're both tired."

I shake my head. "But if you – It's okay. I understand."

"No, I'll stay."

I let out a breath of relief. I've done this on my own for so long, been so resigned to that. The simple thought of having someone else – no, having _Woody_ – here helps.

He sits on the edge of the bed. "Did your mom know her?"

I shrug. "I don't… well, she must have. Mom let the woman in and it was – it was early."

"Okay. Who might have stopped by early in the morning?"

"I – I don't know. Mom didn't have a lot of close friends, not after all her – her problems."

"The Avon lady?" He scrubs a hand through his hair.

I smile sadly and shake my head.

He sits up. "How long before the argument started?"

My eyes widen a bit. "Almost immediately." I'm pacing. "Okay, who would she have argued with like that?"

"You said they were arguing about a man? I hate to ask, but…?" His expression is apologetic.

I wave away his concern. "Yeah, it could have been a jealous wife. She. – Yeah." I chew my lower lip and then shake my head again. "But – No. It wasn't about that. I mean, I think maybe the other woman said something…." I'm ten again and words I don't really understand are flying between my mom and this intruder. "You sent him to my house! My house!" I'm unaware I've said anything.

"What? Jordan? Hey." Woody's voice is far away and anxious.

I blink, bringing myself back. "What?"

"You said – You said 'You sent him to my house! My house!'"

I nod. "That's what the other woman said to my mom."

"Sent who?"

I'm slipping away again, back to the dining room. "I didn't send him."

"Jordan, you're scaring me." I can feel Woody's hands on my arms, feel his fingers tightening around my biceps.

"He already knew. He knew."

Woody says my name again. He shakes me gently. "Jordan!"

I swallow and nod at him. "I'm okay."

"You were – not here."

"I know. I used to get like that sometimes. With Dad."

"Why would this woman have been mad about your mom sending the woman's husband back?"

I shake my head at him. "She didn't send the husband back." I look at him. "They weren't talking about an affair – at least not one that was going on then."

"Then what…?"

"James."

"Your half-brother?"

I nod.

"Why would this woman care?"

"Because she was Malden's wife. And he was already climbing the ladder. If his affair with my mom and James' birth had come out…?"

"Goodbye, Chief of Police someday."

"Yeah." I exhale angrily. "It makes a lot of sense. Malden must have known. God."

"Jordan?" His eyes are filled with concern. "I hate to ask this, but are you sure?"

"She hit me."

He nods. "Split your lip open." I gesture that he should continue. For a moment he looks at sea, then a grin lights up his face. "You said you – what? Bit her?"

I laugh. "Not exactly, but she scraped her hand on my tooth. I remember it bled."

"Got her good, huh?"

"As much as I could at ten, I guess."

"Think you could prove it?"

"Maybe." I check my watch before placing a call. "Nige? Yeah, hi. Yeah, yeah. Okay. You're right, all right? Sheesh! Look, I need a favor. I know, I know, what else is new?" He enumerates a few of the many favors he's done over the years, but agrees. "In my desk – or where Macy put my – still there, huh?" I grin. "Well, okay, there's this picture. It's of my dad, taken at my mom's funeral. Remember Chief Malden? He's in the picture, with his wife. She must have been comforting my dad or something because she's got her hand on his arm." I hear drawers being opened and wait until Nigel's triumphant "aha" greets me. "Can you see anything on her hand? What? You sure? Thanks, Nige. What? I'll explain it all. I promise!" I roll my eyes in good humor as he harangues me. "When I get back. I'll explain when I get back." I look at Woody, my eyes questioning. He shrugs and whispers there are flights every morning out of Kingsford-Smith. "Soon, Nige. Soon."

"Well?" But Woody is already smiling at me.

"She's wearing a bandage on her right hand. Nigel says he'd have to blow it up, but it looks like the bandage didn't cover the whole wound and what you can see _appears_ to be thin, gouging cut." I smile at him in triumph. "Just like the scrape a child's tooth might make."

He gives me a moment. "How do you feel?"

"Motherless." My mouth twitches down for a moment. "That's never going to change, is it?"

He shakes his head.

"But also – free. Everything – I loved her, Woody. Dad loved her. But she had so many problems. Maybe now I can get some perspective on them."

"You can stop waiting for her problems to become yours?"

I nod. "I don't _owe_ her anything now. Except to remember the good times."

He reaches for my hand, lacing my fingers in his. "Good. Because I think there are a lot of things you owe yourself." He tugs me to him, his free hand resting in the small of my back. Gently, he kisses me.

I pull back – softly, easily, my heart fluttering with hope and fear.

"Bad timing?" He asks.

"No… not exactly." I put my hands against his chest. "Woody, when – when you were shot-"

"I know. I heard you."

"And then you told me it didn't change things."

He looks down and scuffs the carpet with his shoe, just like a child caught in some naughty act.

"The way you acted after that… things you said."

He places his hands over mine and meets my gaze. "I was a jackass."

"Woody, I've been hurt – a lot more than I like to admit – but nothing has ever felt that bad. I need to know – I need to know where – where we are." I am fighting tears. "I'm not asking for promises and – and all of that – but I feel like I could be on shaky ground again. If I stayed here… Nothing would be the same, but it's stable."

He nods. "Do you want to come home, Jo?"

Slowly, gravely, I dip my head down, raising it ever so slowly to give my assent.

"Then come back. Come back with me. You are everything I've ever needed and I am never – never – going to be stupid enough to push you away again." His eyes plead with me to believe him.

I lean into him. "Those sound a lot like promises, Detective Hoyt."

He tilts up my chin. "They'll sound a lot like vows if you'll have me."

XXX

Thirty-six hours – or something like that - Woody just calls it Groundhog Day, after the Bill Murray movie – we're both back in Boston. Nigel greets me, asking how my walkabout went. Bug acts as if nothing has happened; Lily hugs me as if I'd been on safari, captured by pygmies and threatened with being the main course at their evening meal; Garret welcomes me back with a closed door. I stop short until I notice he's placed a hand-written sign over his stenciled name. I grin and knock, not waiting for his permission.

"Heck of a promotion," I congratulate him.

He smiles wryly. "Well, I figured – You know."

"So, should we call you 'Saint' or is just 'Jude' okay?"

"I was thinking of 'Your Holiness'."

"Tsk, tsk. That's the Pope!" I give him a hug. "And I think I'm found. Finally."

He nods. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"I had all sorts of reasons. They made great sense at the time."

"And now?"

"Can we _not_ talk about them?"

He laughs.

"I thought I knew who killed my mother," I start without preface. "My dad even confirmed it."

Garret nods. "Max really did know all these years."

"You could say that."

He looks askance at me. "But…?"

"Garret, my father found me standing over my mother's body, holding the gun that killed her, covered in her blood. He'd heard an argument going on downstairs." I raise my eyes to his. "He got me out of the room, got me cleaned up and by that time, I'd blanked it all out. He saw a chance to save me."

"And he took it." Garret nods. "I can understand that."

I shrug. "He couldn't protect me forever. The dreams? It finally all came back. I killed her."

"Jordan – why didn't you say anything?"

"Because all of you would have given me that look you have now – the one Father Paul gave me, the one Woody gave me, the mild version Pollack tried to hide when I told him – disbelief, pity, even a determination to protect me. I couldn't deal with that."

"So you left."

I nod.

"But now you can deal with it?"

"Woody ran into Paul. Something Paul said got them talking about me and why I'd left. When Paul told Woody that he couldn't tell Woody why I left, but Woody should think about what he knew about me – Woody put it together. And with Nigel's help, they ran a few tests they shouldn't have." I grin; they'd learned so well from me. "All of the tests proved I couldn't have killed her."

"That's why Woody went to Sydney."

"Yeah. And now… now I really do know who killed her."

For a moment, my own personal Saint Jude, patron of lost causes, stares solemnly at me. At last, with his usual matter-of-fact tone, he asks, "What are you going to do about it?"

I shrug. "There's not a lot I _can_ do about it. The woman who did it is, the last I heard, in a nursing home, suffering from Alzheimer's. The men who helped cover it up? One is dead and the other – the other believed I did it." I look out Garret's window. It is cold and gray and it is home. "I have to think about that."

"Can I ask?"

I turn my gaze to him once again. "Who it was?"

He nods.

"Malden's wife."

He whistles. "They must have been a match made in Hell."

I nibble on my lower lip. "Ambition, ruthlessness, lack of anything resembling a moral bone in their bodies…yeah."

He hugs me gently at that and whispers his words of welcome. He also tells me that I, Jordan Cavanaugh, have used up every chance he'll ever give me. I grin, figuring I'll break it to him that Jordan Cavanaugh won't need such chances in the future. He can learn how to deal with Jordan Hoyt soon enough.

XXXXX

It's the truth that there isn't much I can do about the truth I've learned, but I still cannot let it all simply fade away, the vivid colors of murder leeching to pale grays and whites. The time is long past for the most honest conversation I've ever had with my father. But first there is one more person I must see.

They tell me Mrs. Malden has her good and her bad days. I don't really care. I just want to see her. She is in her room, sitting in a chair watching it snow. The nurse has told me it's been a good morning so far, but when she introduces me to Helen Malden, her face is blank. Nearly. The nurse leaves with a sigh.

I crouch next to this woman. My skin crawling, I pick up her hand, speaking softly. "I'm Jordan Cavanaugh. Do you remember me? Your husband and my father were on the police force together."

Fear is in her face. This is not the fear of confusion or embarrassment. Nonetheless, she stammers, "I don't know you. I'm sorry. I have trouble…."

I smile gently. "Oh, I think you remember me quite well." I lift up the hand I'm holding gently. There, on the back of the hand, almost lost among the wrinkles and age spots, there is a tiny, vertical scar. "I think you remember that I gave you this scar, as a little girl."

Her eyes are huge and her mouth gapes open. Slowly she shakes her head. I'm almost impressed, in spite of myself, at her bravado.

"I know you remember. And the thing is – I finally do, too." I pause, letting it sink in. "I remember everything. Everything."

She gasps and her hand jerks free from mine. "Get out!" she hisses. "Don't ever come back here!"

I raise an eyebrow at her. "Don't worry. I won't. I just wanted you to know that you didn't get away with it."

"She was a tramp," the old woman spits at me. "She was a mental case."

"At least she wasn't a cold blooded killer. And she never would have let a father believe his own daughter killed his wife." I take a breath. "Her demons chose her; you struck a deal with yours."

I walk out and leave my guest badge at the nurses' desk. The young assistant asks me how it went. I smile sadly and tell the girl that my old family friend didn't recall much.

XXXXX

Woody is waiting for me when I get back to the parking lot. I shake my head at him. He puts out his arms and I walk into them. "I knew you couldn't stay away," he murmurs.

I shake my head.

"Did she remember… you?"

I raise my eyes to his. "She knew everything. Tried pretending she didn't, but she did."

"You okay?"

I have to think about that for a moment. "Yeah. I think – Yeah."

"Even though no one will ever pay for Emily's murder?"

I snort. "People have paid, Woody."

"You know what I mean, Jo."

I slide out of his arms and begin walking to my car, his arm around my waist. "Woody. I was a cop's daughter long before I was an M.E. and I've been an M.E. a long time now – I know the difference between justice and the justice the legal system metes out. I know what happened to her now. I know the truth. And I know that in terms of payment…." I shake my head. "Malden's dead, my dad's living in the shadows, my brother's dead, Malden's wife's brain is slowly turning to Swiss cheese…."

He releases me as we arrive at the El Camino. I key open the lock and slide in, opening his side. "And Jordan Cavanaugh?" he asks as he argues with the seat belt, which doesn't want to buckle this morning.

I smile at him. "I'd done paying. I'm done paying and I'm done making everyone in my life pay for that morning."

He leans over to kiss me and is stopped short by the seat belt; apparently it decided we were going to be in a crash and should not allow any give. Woody growls at it and wrestles the buckle free. He slides closer to me and gives me a kiss that makes me want to forget we're in a parking lot in broad daylight.

XXXXX

That night I call my dad – or more correctly, I call the number he gave me. I leave him a simple message. "Hey, Dad. Guess what? I didn't do it. I know who did." Nigel starts an office pool – whoever can guess how long it'll take before Max is back in Boston wins the pot. He laughs when I ask how many chances I can buy. The winner surprises me – mostly because it's the espresso vender from the corner stand. I guess we Cavanaughs are not exactly masters of subtlety.

I'm at my desk, feeling only mildly like a 'roo kicked me in the head – yes, the jet lag is fading slowly – when he says my name. I look up to find Dad's eyes boring holes into me. His face is both eager and fearful. In the end, I tell him the story simply. I watch as he realizes how much of the friction between us has been unnecessary, maybe evitable even. I want to tell him not to regret those years – they have made me who I am and, crazy, obsessive, commitment-shy, stubborn, I wouldn't change it.

Dad stays only a few days this time. The night before he plans on leaving, Woody asks to talk to him after a dinner we've shared at Dad's house.

"Christ, Woody, I'm tired. I've got that early flight. Can we do it in the morning?"

Of course, neither Woody nor I believe my dad will actually still be here in the morning. Every subtle sign is that he'll bolt under cover of darkness.

"Sorry, Max. This is important." He glances over at me. "Really important and I don't want to leave it until the morning. Just in case, you know."

Max flicks up an eyebrow. So what if he knows we're on to him? The game, the dance goes on, but the music is lighter now. "All right, all right," he says with a put-upon sigh.

Woody stammers his beginning. "Um, Max – Mr. Cavanaugh, I mean – I think perhaps you've noticed I have feelings for your daughter, Jordan."

"Woody," my dad drawls. "Half those corpses she autopsies have noticed you have feelings for her. And I thank you for clarifying that my daughter is Jordan."

My poor detective blushes to the roots of his spiky hair. He opens his mouth several times. Part of me has the urge to club him on the head the way you do a fish gasping like that. It might be kinder. Not nearly as fun though. "I – uh – of course." Woody swallows and straightens his tie. "Well, then, I suppose you won't be – will say – That is… I would like… Oh, hell," he mutters. "I'm asking for your daughter's hand in marriage. It may seem very old-fashioned to you but I think it says a lot about my values and how I feel about the sanctity of marriage and…."

Wow, he actually said _sanctity of marriage_. I'm biting my cheek to keep from laughing. Sanctity being what it is and all.

Max stares at Woody, his face blank, his eyes cold stones. Finally he speaks and I realize I've been holding my breath. Maybe I'm not as jaded as I sometimes feel. "My daughter's hand? My daughter – Jordan by name – her hand?" Oh, Dad is enjoying this.

Woody gulps and nods.

"No."

My suitor's face falls. I have to admit, my heart pounds wildly as well.

"No?" Woody managed only a squeak.

"No," Dad repeats. "You have to take all of her – not just her hand."

It takes a good half a minute for Dad's lame joke to sink in. Then Woody beams in relief and tries to compliment Max on his sense of humor. His heart isn't in it though. I think his heart is actually still in his throat.

Dad hugs me and shakes Woody's hand, telling him I'll keep him on his toes.

When we wake up in the morning, he's gone. The note says to call and leave a message and he'll come back for the wedding. He's been trying to get rid of me all these years, he's not going to miss out now. Woody chuckles and holds me to him. "I am never going to try to get rid of you, Jordan. You know that, right?"

I smile up at him, my chin tilted, my eyes still bleary and have closed. "You've mentioned something like that. Wanna remind me?"

He lifts me off the floor and carries me back to bed to remind me of just that.

END


End file.
